The ragged band of survivors had been arguing for days over whether to mount another trip into town. The bitter memory of the last trip, of course, hung over them: several had been lost on that scavenging expedition, and the rest had only narrowly escaped the ravenous zombie horde. On the other hand, the group was desperately short of supplies.

In the end, the debate was settled by something altogether unexpected—the sound of a helicopter clattering in the distance, followed by an explosion and cloud of smoke in the center of town, somewhere near the abandoned town hall. It was the first sign of civilization that any of them had seen in over six weeks .

When the zombie plague spread out of Canada and swept across the world, a small and unlikely group of survivors banded together in central Alabama. Some were locals, others were strangers brought there by circumstance. But in the face of reanimated death, all that mattered was their ability to stay alive.

For months they foraged near Montgomery, but eventually supplies ran low while the number of zombies seemed undiminished. And so a fateful decision was taken: to leave this place, and try to find somewhere safer. Some suggested Newfoundland, others the Maldives. But both seemed so very far away.

As a first step, it was agreed to travel to the coast and try to find a small boat in working order. Moving by sea along the Gulf coast seemed much less risky than going anywhere by foot or vehicle–and, besides, most of the group were dimly aware that both the Maldives and Newfoundland were islands. Rather than try to find a vessel in Mobile (a major port, but also a city overrun by many thousands of walking dead), they chose instead to travel to the sleepy Gulf town of Phirul, Alabama. There they would need to scavenge supplies and gasoline, find a boat, and–if they could stay alive that long–set off on the next, nautical stage of their struggle for survival .